The Violinist
by September Third
Summary: After a visit to her Father's humble grave and hearing a frightening voice seemingly ownerless calling her name, Christine de Chagny lets her mind recall all the happy careless times of her childhood, in Perros, and how her dear father made life wonderfu
1. Prologue

I am no longer writting "The Vionlist" because I found it impossible to stay true to the Leurox book, which I honor greatly. All Phantom characters belong to him, not me, nor Andrew Llloyd Webber. Please read, enjoy, and comment on the little that I have, and except my appology of being unable to continue with all due respect to Phantom's maker. Also, updates I made to all chapters (it's become much better) are too hard to upload online, so it's not the best representation of my writting. Enjoy what there it!

Prologue

_There was a man there, that day, he was a rather peculiar man, just judging by the fact that he was there at the small cemetery with not one loved one to mourn, but all that is of no matter. The sky was a dull gray, and though – as I stated- this man had no person who had passed from this world to cry over, he was silently crying large, glassy tears as he was watching a crown of perfectly curled brunette hair slowly and shakily moving towards a small little grave on the far side of the cemetery. The owner of the beautiful crown was a stunning young woman, or more to the point, she usually was, but she was a small weeping child now. Her face was a tint red, and she choked on the backup of tears that hadn't yet escaped down her face. You'd think by then she would have gotten over the fact that her father was gone, forever. You'd think after those long, hard six years she wouldn't have been sobbing so, yet she was. Her sobs only increased the closer she got to the small grave, that was hardly recognizable in the snow, yet she'd been there so many times, she'd have known it if it was fully covered by the white mounds of, seemingly gloomy, snow that surrounded her. On the small tombstone, in moldy letters was carved the words:_

_Daae_

_**Beloved father and husband**_

_Then there was a small bit more on a piece of wood placed at the bottom –for the cross was to small to engrave it all on- that the girl reached down a loving white hand to dust off._

_January 27, 1828_

_**To**_

_**December 10, 1876**_

Even from the far distance that the man was at, he could still hear her moan, "Father…" 


	2. The Viscount and Little Lotte

**1 – The Viscount and Little Lotte**

The girl kissed her small hand then placed it on her father's grave before once more leaving, but as that dreary procession of one slowly slipped away she heard a small whimpering, as if an angel it's self was crying with her, and sharing her tears and sorrow. She turned around slowly… cautiously, but she found nothing. She didn't see the masked face in the shadows, crying vain tears at his own pain, not hers. It was something eerie, to hear a pitiable voice in a rather small cemetery, but then find not a soul there. Suddenly she seemed to hear a frightening noise- as if someone had just softly murmured to himself, "Christine… Christine"- and the spooked girl rushed home, only to spend the rest of the day pondering the rather peculiar sound, and how close it was to how her dearest father had said her name. It was to much for her, it seemed, thoughts of him in general overwhelmed her with grief and mourning, but also a slue of cheerful memories from a better time almost as though her mind was protecting her from going completely mad. She started thinking about her father… the violinist.

Erik Daae went to his precious daughter's bedchamber to bid her farewell for the evening, and as he did some special nights, he brought his handcrafted fiddle with him. She would always be thrilled and her eyes would dance with joy as he played, yet by the end her breathing would be soft and her face would take on that of even more of an angel's look then usual as she had quietly fallen asleep. Tonight was different, though, she was so excited to see her father and had something very special to tell him before he could even show her the fine wood of the fiddle.

"Father! I met a young boy today, he saved my scarf," she stated excitedly, and then pointed at the wet garment that had been gently laid by the blazing fire in the corner. "It blew into the sea," she added.

Erik smiled at his young daughter's excitement in "meeting a young boy". "Who is this charming young man?" he said with a smile as he stroked his daughter's beautiful, wavy hair, now only making small, lazy curls after being washed and combed out.

"His name is Raoul, Father. And do you know what? He's ten-years-old, hardly older than me!"

Erik almost laughed out loud right then and there but restrained for his daughter's sake, so she wouldn't feel like she had said something very silly, but his smile only got wider to her, thinking that this "young boy" that she was so excited about, was not just any boy, but the young viscount of France, yet she seemed to care little what he was, just who he was.

"Why," he said cheerfully, pretending to be very impressed, "that's the Viscount de Chagny!"

Little Christine smiled up at her loving father, "Do you think we might invite him over some time, Father?"

"Of course! I'd like to meet this charming young lad!"

Christine giggled at her father's exaggerated expressions.

"Now, my darling, it's time you get some rest." He said, slowly pulling the covers up over he, "and… I don't suppose you'd like some fiddle music?"

"Oh father!" Christine sat up in bed, managing to undo all the covers on the way. She kissed him as she threw her small arms around him in a hug, then she lay back down to listen to his beautiful music and fell asleep.

Raoul de Chagny, sadly having little family besides his small ensemble of a brother and sisters, was welcomed into the Daae's humble home like a son. It was there he spent so very many happy hours that he had more childhood memories, to this day, of Christine's father than his older brother, the Count Philippe de Chagny, who played the paternal role to him in their own home. The young viscount accompanied the inseparable duo many places not to mention spent with them many quiet evening at home. He also proved to be the one childhood friend of shy Christine, for before him, the only playmate she had ever known of was her father.

Besides many solo concerts on the fiddle, with Christine's soft voice joining in, the Viscount also heard many stories that came out of the violinist's mouth, they all started differently and wove a clever tale with different vivid characters coming together in life, but both the children's favorite was the story of Little Lotte. That story was the only one Erik was ever asked to repeat, though probably the simplest among his tales. It was almost more of a poem then a story, but he would recite it with the greatest feeling possible every single time, despite how many times he said it before that day or that week.

He would sit in his chair by the fire, with the two children on the floor, and tell them the story that they adored so whenever they so desired. "Little Lotte," he'd always begin, "was the most perfect little girl ever, besides one. She had such fine blond hair that it looked like silk upon her head, and her soul was as clear and beautiful as her blue eyes. She was always in a good mood and the apple of her parent's eyes. This wonderful little girl expected so little, so her parents gave her much, yet she always liked the small things best. She liked what money couldn't buy. For instance, one she thought to herself, 'What am I fondest of?' She thought of all the candies and dolls and petticoats and all sorts of other little girl treasures, but finally decided, 'No, what I love the very best is when the Angel of Music will come and sing to me at night. When I'm asleep in my bed…'" That was it… that was the whole story, yet the children loved it more than any of the violinist's more clever stories, for the idea of the angel of music fascinated them, especially little Christine, who one time asked her Father about the angel of music once Raoul had gone home.

"Have you ever been visited by him, Father?"

Erik shook his head sadly, "No, my dear, but one day when my time is passed I shall send him to you, and you shall have him with you always."

Christine the responded, "Perhaps he visited you before you even knew it!" for she was sure that if ever someone should have the angel of music, it would be her father, because to her, he was the best musician in the entire world.


End file.
